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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875209">Not for Lack of Trying</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/allcutenamesaretakenagain/pseuds/allcutenamesaretakenagain'>allcutenamesaretakenagain</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Attempted Murder, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Comfort/Angst, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Depressed Merlin (Merlin), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Merlin (Merlin), Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Merlin-centric (Merlin), Modern Era, Murder, Other, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Post-Canon, Post-Magic Reveal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Reincarnation, Scars, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Torture, no beta we die like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:33:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,894</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27875209</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/allcutenamesaretakenagain/pseuds/allcutenamesaretakenagain</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After Arthur's death, Merlin loses himself and becomes careless. Then, Arthur returns.</p><p> </p><p>Or; What would happen if you lose all of your friends and you feel it is your fault? Trauma, probably.</p><p> </p><p>there is an archive warning for graphic violence and rape, but it is not too graphic or very explicitly described, but better safe than sorry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Gwen/Leon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The First Years</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is my first fic in years and English is also not my first language. I did edit this chapter but feel free to kindly point out mistakes or things that could be improved :D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Merlin was still alive. After Arthur’s death, he returned briefly to Camelot to say goodbye. He stayed no more than a day before his pain became too much. Arthur was, after all, his other half, his soulmate. Most people could never understand what it would be like to even have a soulmate, let alone lose them. Merlin did.</p><p>It hurt so much. His heart felt as if it was in a never-ending fire. As if a thorny flower had grown in his chest and its roots were spreading to his lungs, slowly suffocating him. As if a dragon was locked in a cage with his heart and destroyed everything in its rage to get free, everything except the cage itself. Merlin could not stop the pain. He was locked in a constant state of grief, one that would be never-ending. Not until Arthur returned.</p><p>Merlin was still alive, but not for lack of trying. In the past 1500 years, things happened. He was no longer the happy-go-lucky boy that came from a small town. He stopped being that boy after years in Arthur’s service, having witnessed and unintentionally caused great pain. But when his only purpose for staying alive left, Merlin fell apart.</p><p>When he returned to Camelot, he stumbled, beaten and broken into Gaius’ chambers, unaware where he actually was going. He vaguely remembered people walking in and out, as he sat there on the patient’s bench, and voices asking things. They were worried. They were frantically moving around the room, pacing and waving their arms as their voices rose in worry. Merlin stayed mute. Amidst of the chaos, he sat frozen and silent on the bench, staring into the nothingness. It wasn’t until it became dark that he suddenly snapped out of it. Merlin stood up, mumbled something about Arthur being dead and leaving Camelot, and ran out the door, leaving Gaius and Gwen in shock behind. He wouldn’t see them ever again.</p><p>The first time he tried it was only ten years after Arthur’s death. He had tried to move on, leaving Camelot and even Ealdor, all the places he had memories with Arthur. He became a farmboy of a small town, quite popular too. Magic was not outlawed where he was, though he did not know where that was. He paid no attention to details like that, too focused on just going through another day. The villagers noticed Merlin’s dark mood, but he pretended that he was fine despite it looming over him. They smiled, blissfully ignorant of the truth and accepted his words. He became the handsome and mysterious man of the town. The tortured artist in a way. Everyone wanted to be that special someone who could break through his walls and love and be loved by him. Lots of girls and boys were pining after him, often flirting with him. Merlin did not notice. The emptiness was his only companion in that time, blinding him from any existing beauty.</p><p>After a few years the boys and girls gave up. Once it became clear that Merlin did not age. The villagers that were once in love with him had grown older, some still single and crushing on him, but all had moved on to consider others. They now started to get grey hair and their children were running around the town. Merlin himself was not yet aware of this, instead he was vaguely pondering going back to Camelot, and see if Gwen ever had kids and how everything was there now. They’d be twenty years older from last he saw them. Merlin still looked no day older than 27.</p><p>Realising he wasn’t aging was horrible. A little girl had asked him if he was a fairy and therefore didn’t grow older. At first Merlin had smiled and joked a bit but later the realisation sunk in, and his mental state went further downhill. He used to at least fake living before, but now he left his small cottage barely. The villagers tried to goad him outside, unaware and ignorant of his predicament. They asked if he wanted to go for a walk, or go fishing or hunting. Merlin merely answered them that he wasn’t feeling well, and they left him some food and supplies. Some of those who were still interested in him left flowers and letters. This went on for a few weeks. People knocking on his door, Merlin calling out that he was ill and them leaving baskets at his door. That is, until someone knocked on his door and there was no answer. </p><p>Merlin woke up to the sight of people crying in his house. It took him a moment to realise where he was, and what had happened. He had died. He slowly sat up, his limbs feeling stiff and cramped. Was the world always spinning like this? He heard shocked gasps and cries, but he was too caught up in his jumbled thoughts to react to them. It felt as if his whole world was distorted and his brain was disfiguring itself in order to fit in. It hurt and it was disorienting. Merlin was unaware of the people panicking around him. Some were scared and ran away, some were pulling at his clothes, touching his face and hair as if checking to see he was okay. He was not okay. </p><p>He vaguely noticed how there were slits on his wrists, completely healed. He made them, didn’t he? He stared at them for a while. They should have been deep enough. They would have been deep enough. If only he was allowed such relief. He fell back down on the cot, like a marionette doll whose strings were cut. It hurt too much to move, to think. Around him, people were moving and asking questions, but he did not even hear them. It was as if he was underwater, floating in the sea, unable to drown. Then, as if a tidal wave came over him, he screamed.</p><p>His screams were terrible. In letting his voice loose, his magic tore itself from his control. His emotions were going rampant and Merlin was not in the right mind to reign it in. His screams continued as the sky became dark and the weather started to attack whatever it could. It was impossible to stand in the strong wind, and the rain was so heavy it destroyed the trees and houses. Merlin screamed and screamed. And then, he stopped.</p><p>When he woke up again, the town was nearly destroyed. Most people had survived, but Merlin saw some bodies being carried away. He stood at the side of the village. He had caused this destruction. He had caused pain for these kind people. There was a loud cry to his left. There was a little boy, no older than seven crying over another small body. His brother. Merlin felt guilt well up in his chest, a recognition and regret of the scene before him, but then it died down again. He had no energy left to feel anything. With a wave of his hand he restored the town to its former state. Then, he turned and left. They wouldn’t miss him anyway.</p><p>The second time was not his fault. He was forced to do it. Somewhere along the road, he was captured when he was asleep. Now, Merlin was a powerful sorcerer and people knew this. But he was also severely broken, and he had no real will to fight. He took sleeping potions to thwart his insomnia, but they left him vulnerable. He didn’t care though. And it was this carelessness that allowed Merlin to fall into the hands of a travelling freakshow.</p><p>Rumours of a powerful magical warlock had spread, and slave traders were on the lookout for him to make good money. Falling into the hands of slave traders, however, would have been a mercy compared to the ones who found Merlin first. The freakshow masters bound Merlin’s magic with chains while he was unconscious because of the sleeping draught, and when he woke up in a cage he couldn’t do anything. He could have been more careful, he knew people were after him. But he hadn’t cared. He would have used his brains to escape still, but now? He just wasn’t sure if it was worth it. If life was worth it. His capturers, the Freakmasters they called themselves, tortured him to see what he would do for them, what could be a good show. Merlin vaguely remembered saying he couldn’t do anything without his magic, but they laughed and said that after the teachings he’d be allowed to do magic, but only what they wanted. “Ya wouldn't know what te do without us tellin’ ya once we’re finished with ya.”  As such, Merlin was tied up to the ceiling, whipped, beaten, starved, poisoned, healed and poisoned again, and humiliated for more than a month. It was a wonder it took that long, really. No human body should have been able to endure so much pain and torture and survive. But then again, Merlin was no human. And he hated it. He hated himself.</p><p>And then, he died. During another beating, Merlin just stopped breathing and his heart stopped beating. His body hung limply from the ceiling. The Freakmasters were discussing what to do with the body, whether or not they should feed it to their Griffin or just burn it, when Merlin woke up. They looked surprised, though Merlin didn’t notice. His vision was too blurry and the world was moving around him again. Merlin still hung limply from the ceiling, weakly fighting the chains only to fall again. His wounds were all healed, but he was breathing heavily in exhaustion. The Freakmasters looked at each other and talked for a bit, Merlin had no clue what they were saying, too disoriented to comprehend what was happening. Being dead had that effect on you. He vaguely noticed a man with a sword in front of him. Seconds later, that sword was protruding from his chest.</p><p>Then he woke up again. He was continuously surrounded by laughter, and sometimes yelling and cheers. He was constantly killed, resurrected, and killed again. It was so constant, these years of Merlin’s life were only filled with memories of dying. He remembered being eaten alive, torn apart, decapitated, burnt, hung, stabbed, hunted, drowned, poisoned, starved, and even cooked alive. He had no clue how long this had gone on, nor how much of this was public. He had vague memories of being on a stage, surrounded by an audience screaming and cheering for his death, only to die seconds later. The only death he remembered clearly, was the one where he was forced to kill himself by slitting his throat. It was decades of pure disorientation and pain for him. He had nothing to hold on to outside of his insanity. He might as well die. The second time he killed himself was not of his own choice, but it might as well have been.</p><p>Then there was one mistake. The Freakmasters travelled to a country where Freakshows were illegal. They were captured and the creatures and people they kept were set free. Merlin’s body was full of scars by then. Except his face. His Freakmasters wanted to attract an audience, and a handsome face was worth more than a maimed one. Perhaps it was this that had saved him. An audience member who had attended the show illegally saw Merlin, and in a wave of guilt and horror left for the castle, reporting the freak show. Merlin was freed that same night.</p><p>Physically he was free from the torture, but mentally it’d taken a year to not feel the continuous disorientation that resulted from dying. Once he could form coherent thoughts and sentences, he was also capable of nightmares and flashbacks of things he didn't remember. Once he regained his place in the world though, no longer shaken by the aftermath of death, he was brought to the queen. The queen was a widow, but the loss of her love had not deterred her kindness. In Merlin she saw wisdom and was willing to nurse that wisdom back to its full capacity. Merlin was unaware of this when he stood in front of her, but he had enough mind to thank her. She smiled, and Merlin smiled shyly back. He then served her and her descendents as an advisor for many years to come. </p><p>Centuries had passed at some point, and Merlin did not feel better. He felt just as empty as the first time he killed himself. During the years as an advisor to the first queen, he had sought information on Camelot. Only to be quickly pointed to the history of the kingdom itself. The queen he was serving was Gwen’s granddaughter. It was a shock enough to have Merlin lock himself in a room for months. Lamenting the friends he could never see again. It was then that he realised how much years he had wasted away under the torture that he brough upon himself in his carelessness. It hurt. It hurt so much.  He read any text he could find on his friends, the knights, Gwen, and Gaius. He let his hands grace the words, unable to get any closer to them ever again. </p><p>Gaius had died not five years after Merlin had left, unknowing what had become or would become of his dear nephew. Gwaine and Elyan had died during the war. Percival survived, but died years later trying to save a young man from a house fire. Merlin could have saved him, had he been there. Leon married Guinevere and they had one son together. Their son was a great king, and his daughter would become an even better queen. Merlin was honored to serve her. </p><p>But the only words that left his mouth were words of advice. He didn’t know if his reluctance to talk was part of the aftermath of dying repeatedly for more than a hundred years, or if he just couldn’t be bothered. Talking meant living, living meant caring, and caring meant losing. Losing was something Merlin had felt too much in his life, and he was reluctant to open up again. Talking about it could help process everything that happened to him, but more than that it hurt to relive his loss and pain. How could it not? So he just shut up, unless he could help. How could Merlin talk about the loss of his friends, when it was his fault for failing them?</p><p>When the kingdom fell in ruins after the last king died unexpectedly with no successor, he left. Without his soulmate it was difficult to continue on, but now he did not even have a real purpose anymore. He wandered the woods, concealing himself from any human. He became a legend to the surrounding towns. A magical creature that protected the forest, only rarely seen to those lucky enough. It was this legend that made the depressed and broken man into a wonderful and kind guardian, that drove Merlin to a new purpose. Merlin started helping Anhorra care for the unicorns, in turn Anhorra taught Merlin how to gain full control and power over his magic. He truly became the most powerful sorcerer ever to walk the earth.</p><p>Merlin was coping, but a long distance from healed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. His Return</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As of yet unedited. But didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. Once again, please feel free to (kindly) leave notes and tips and the comments. But also just anything really. Comments are motivating :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the years spent with Anhorra, Merlin kept track of humanity and progressions. Sometimes he took a break from caring for the unicorns and became a traveller, healing and advising people in need of guidance. Usually these people resembled one of his late friends. One traveller had no home and moved from tavern to tavern. Merlin joined him on his journey for a while until he found a permanent companion in another young man. One wanted to become a healer, and seemed in his demeanor much like an old physician dear to Merlin. As a gift, Merlin gave him a healing amulet that would not lose power for another hundred years. But he always returned to Anhorra, to keep some semblance of purpose and meaning in his life.</p><p>He only returned to civilization around the 1500s, and only because Anhorra had announced that he would take the unicorns to Avalon, a place Merlin could not enter until after death. When asked why, Anhorra merely stated that the time of unicorns would come again but for now Avalon would serve as a better home for them. Merlin asked if he could join, in whatever way possible. <br/>“I just don’t want to be left alone without a purpose again,” he had muttered.<br/>Anhorra had only given him a pained look and pursed lips. “You are still needed. I’m sorry.”<br/>And with those words, Anhorra disappeared with all the unicorns. Merlin was alone.</p><p>Merlin had once again lost meaning, and subsequently his will to live. So he tried again. He was older now, wiser. He knew the conventional methods wouldn’t work on him. But he hadn’t tried dying from natural causes. He had been killed in every way possible, whether it was by poison, fire, weapons, or drowning, but never by a natural disease. After all, catching a cold still happened to him and it was not something he forced to happen to him. Maybe the clue to dying was to not force it, but just coax it out of him. Everything natural was after all magical, and if a disease kills him, it must be magic’s will, right? As such, Merlin became a plague doctor.</p><p>He saved many. Probably too many for the Old Religion to accept it, but he couldn’t be punished anymore than he already was. He couldn’t let children die a painful death. They were innocent. They hadn’t done anything wrong. Their eyes were full of tears as they cried in pain for their mother. Merlin had the power to end that pain. They didn’t deserve to die for living. Merlin had learnt that lesson when he first met Mordred. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just a kid who had lost his father. These kids were the same. Innocent souls, condemned by fate for no reason. And Merlin did not accept that. His heart was too full of pain to see more innocents die.</p><p>He saved as many as he could without sacrificing another life. Some were too far gone, not even magic could save them. Merlin took their pain away though. They passed away in their sleep, their hand held by their plague doctor. Merlin did not cry for any of them. He was too numb and too empty to outwardly react. Instead, he closed their eyes and made the bed for the next patient. Moving on as quickly as he could. There was no time to linger. It didn’t matter for the dead, but it did make a difference for those who still lived and were ill. A second could save someone’s life, and Merlin kept moving forward because of this. </p><p>He helped patients for months before he became ill himself. It was probably only his magic that staved it off for so long. He did not wear a mask and touched his patients without caution. He was uncaring of his own health. Self-destructive behaviour was common to Merlin now. If Gaius could see him now…. He would be shocked for sure. The Merlin he was back in Camelot would never have hit this low. No matter how terrible he felt, he would continue on and fight to live. Back then, there was a purpose, a reason to stay alive. Now? Merlin only had reasons to die.</p><p>His magic had saved him from contracting the illness as long as it could, but once he was infected all his magic could do was prolong his suffering. Despite suffering the worst variant of the illness that should have killed him within the first day, he survived for another week in agony. Alone in a tent in the forest where he had stopped on the way to the next town. There was no one around for miles. It was a lonely and painful death. It felt as if he was on fire for days, breathing hurt, and Merlin was certain his stomach had eaten itself. All conscious moments were filled with sensations of pain only. Merlin was almost certain this would keep him dead. His last death had been so long ago he had forgotten what it was like. Dying. His final thoughts were prayers that he may stay dead. Then, he woke up.</p><p>The self destructive behaviour did not stop. Merlin sought out wars to find in. He fought on whichever side fought for freedom. If he was going to entertain war, he wanted it to be for what he once fought for. For what he once stayed alive for. The first war he fought in was the American Revolution. He was just a soldier, he followed orders. He did nudge some people here and there in the right direction, but no one knew it was him. Just some magic to make sure that George Washigton heard of this bright chap named Alexander Hamilton. Perhaps they could do what he couldn’t. Merlin helped them as much as he could, but when people saw him get shot in the chest, he had to leave. He hoped it was enough.</p><p>Turns out, it was enough. The Americas were now a free country. Alexander would help build the country and Merlin heard he had married and had kids. He was happy for him. Well, as happy as he could be. He didn’t stop to ponder too much about Alexander. After he had ‘died’, Merlin had left for France. There was a similar revolution happening. The people were starving while the rich seemed to indulge in food. At first it was clear for whom Merlin would fight. But after a while, the lines blurred. There was no longer a clear goal. People grabbed for power and were killing each other to do so. Merlin no longer fought for anyone. All he did was enter the crossfire to save innocents merely caught in the riots.</p><p> However, he was apprehended. People were shouting accusations at him for fighting for a king who no longer was alive. He could use magic and save himself, but what would it matter? He couldn’t die anyway. And, if he did use magic, he’d make himself a target again. He might be subject to a hunt. He might be forced into a circus again. Merlin promptly threw up at the thought. People around him were laughing. Insults and curses were all he heard as they pulled him forward. He didn’t want to go back. No magic. He could not use magic. He couldn’t. His head was pushed down on a wooden block. He didn’t want to feel anymore. The blade fell. His head rolled.</p><p>When he woke, he was surrounded by decapitated bodies. All neatly organised in rows, as if they were on display. Merlin felt sick. The stench of decomposing bodies and old blood was overwhelming. His world was spinning, even though he was still lying on the floor, too weak to move yet. He felt horrible. God, he had forgotten how decapitation was worse than any other death. The aftermath left him not only disoriented, but his whole body hurt. His neck and throat felt as if they might rip if he lifted his head. He felt sick and his vision was filled with black spots if it was not just a blur. He lay amongst the dead bodies for the entire night. When the first light shone, he knew he had to move. Or they would know. And if they knew.... He couldn’t do that again. He had to go.</p><p>Merlin spent the entirety of the 19th century in England again. The industrial revolution was horrific. Merlin had a vague hope Arthur would return. He should. Children were starving, and if they were not starving, they were dying in work accidents. Children shouldn’t do dangerous work.Merlin tried to help, but he was afraid to show himself. Anytime he showed himself it ended badly. His hand stroked his throat. No. That wouldn’t happen again. He left food outside their houses, knowing they’d find it in the morning. He helped homeless children find shelter, sometimes he even dared to use magic. Children hadn’t betrayed him before, and he couldn’t let them die. </p><p>It was really bad in 1888. There was a serial killer on the loose, killing prostitutes. Merlin knew them. Catherine Eddowes, Annie Chapman, Mary Ann Nichols, Elizabeth Stride, and Mary Jane Kelly. Many more, but those he didn’t know. He knew they were all lovely women though, forced into prostitution to survive. But even then, they helped him take care of homeless children, giving an extra blanket out, or a spare coin. Those who struggled to survive were much kinder and more generous than the rich. Even if they had barely enough for themselves, they still shared with those in need. Children would live into adulthood because of these women. And then they were killed. </p><p>It hurt when they were killed too. It hurt when he couldn’t keep up with the increase of children in need. He was so powerful, yet not powerful enough. He couldn’t give more than he already had. He had starved to death himself, just to give what food he had to the kids. He woke up anyway, it didn’t matter for him. It made him a bit woozy, but it saved their lives. But he couldn’t give more than he had. And with the ladies dead…. He didn’t know what to do. There was so much suffering. So much hurt. And the rich only cared about earning more money. Merlin felt sick. Where was Arthur? Merlin fell on his knees. He would stop this. The dark swallowed him. He had to. </p><p>Merlin snapped that same century. He was walking towards the river, just to watch the water, when he saw a boy lying underneath newspapers, shivering. He was huddled against a wall, his clothes had more holes than fabric. He didn’t look alive. If Merlin’s heart could break any more, it would have. He walked towards the boy, knowing he could at least fix his clothes and keep him warm. He reached out his hand and touched the boy’s shoulder, Merlin stopped. His face. He knew that face. Merlin’s heart surged in a way he didn’t know was possible still. The boy was young, not even ten years old. God, he was so young. He looked exactly like Morded, the druid boy he had failed. Merlin shook the boy, coaxing him to wake up. He couldn’t save Mordred then, but he could save this boy now. He shook harder. Tears were streaming over his cheeks. Had he failed before he could try? He felt for a pulse. God please don’t let it be true. There was none. His fault. It was always his fault. He should be better. He dropped his head on the boy’s still corpse and sobbed. Why couldn’t he save anyone? </p><p>He tried again that very night. Jumped into the river. Didn’t even care it wouldn’t work. He just needed to be dead for a bit. To not feel. If he stayed dead it’d be great, but he took any kind of peace he could get. Even if it was painful to achieve and short lived. He just wanted to stop existing. </p><p>Then came the Great War. If Arthur didn’t return before, it must have been because this war was coming and he would be needed now. Merlin signed up to fight. Hopeful, for a change, to find Arthur on the battlefield with him. He made friends with his fellow soldiers. They were so hopeful at first, thinking the war would be over within the year and they’d be home with their families and sweethearts. Merlin was with each of them as they died. Ethan got shot in his chest, dying minutes later in Merlin’s arms. Mark stepped on a mine and was gone before Merlin could blink. Thomas was the victim of poisonous gas. He and Merlin were both choking through the pain, trying to find a way out of the poisonous mist. They didn’t. But Merlin woke up. Thomas did not.  They told him it was a miracle. Merlin replied with asking to be let back on the field. </p><p>The war ended. Arthur hadn’t arrived. Merlin didn’t think about how much worse it would get.</p><p>Merlin tried to take up his life somewhere else. The Netherlands seemed like a good place. The Dutch were friendly and welcoming. He became a doctor, deciding that he could save people that way. Maybe use his magic when medicine wasn’t enough. He could do some good again. He lived there for years, aging himself to not appear out of place. He wasn’t okay, but he was trying to be. Merlin wondered if he ever could be truly okay again. His chances didn’t look good. At least he was trying to live a normal life. He saved up money, though he didn’t know what for, and went out for drinks with coworkers. He even let himself be wooed for a bit before putting a stop to it. Nothing could last for Merlin. But it was already too late.</p><p>The Germans invaded. Merlin was arrested. A pink triangle on his clothing said why. He couldn’t escape. Too many witnesses. It was claustrophobic. Pressed up against other people. He wanted to escape. He was forced to remove his clothes. This was horrible. He was pushed into a room. What was happening? It was too crowded. His heartbeat thudded in his ears. The doors closed. He couldn’t move. A sissing sound started up. Please. People started screaming. Make it stop. Merlin fell.</p><p>He woke up in a pit of dead bodies. It was dark out. There was a young girl next to him. Barely sixteen. Her glassy eyes stared straight into his. Merlin felt sick. He closed his eyes and tried to gather his magic. It was night. He had to leave now, before they saw. If they saw him awake, he’d be taken to a place worse than this. He shuddered. Waking up from death by gas left his lungs weak, but he was only minimally disoriented. Both a blessing and a curse. He was too aware of where he was lying, naked amongst other naked corpses of men, women, and children. But a blessing, because he was at least conscious enough to teleport himself out of there </p><p>Ten years after the war ended, did Merlin return to society. He had spent his time in the Scottish Highlands, taking care of an old small castle in return for a place to stay. He had shown up in response to a job vacancy published in the newspaper. He looked as normal as any other young man did, pretending to not have suffered more than a human could handle. The owner was a nice old lady who had become too old to take care of the castle by herself. She reminded him of his own mother, so he gladly stayed and helped her as much as he could. Though he never spoke about his past and was hesitant in interactions, the other staff members came to love him too. Merlin was a gentle soul, and in that castle, they allowed him to be. He was safe there.</p><p>But the lady died, and the staff had to leave. Merlin became a doctor again. Helping people while saving money to buy the place he had felt so safe in. The lady had no family to leave it too, so it stood vacant, up for sale. So he worked every day of the week, talking to no one outside of work. You could hardly call it living. But Merlin couldn’t bring himself to do more. If he went out again, even if not for his magic, he would be hurt. It happened before, and he was sure it would happen again. He would go insane if it happened one more time. He really would. He was barely hanging on now. His hope had left him. Arthur hadn’t returned during the second world war. Merlin wondered if he ever would. </p><p>Somebody else had bought the castle. Merlin continued working. If he saved enough lives, maybe he’d be allowed to take his own.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Twenty-First Century</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>not proofread or beta read, soooo be aware. There will be one more chapter after this, and then I think it's done.<br/>trigger warning for mention of rape though, nothing too graphic but still</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The twenty-first century came. Merlin lived in a small flat in London. He was still a doctor, though didn’t practice actively anymore. Instead, he gave lectures at the university every once in a while. He had enough money built up from previous decades that he could afford it. Now he lived in a small but cosy apartment, reading books to pass the time and keep his mind off of things. The university was very accommodating, understanding that the young doctor (Merlin held the appearance of a thirty year old at this time) had a traumatic experience and couldn’t work full time. Instead, he worked two days a week, spending the rest in his flat or promenading in a park.</p><p>He had stopped practicing after one of the nurses had harassed him. There was a party, someone’s final work day. Merlin knew how special last days were, and Johanna was very kind (she always gave him lollipops meant for the children, saying that “he was such a sweetheart he deserved some sweets”). Thus, Merlin came. But it was crowded. He looked away from his drink for one moment. And the next he woke up naked at a strange place, hurting all over.</p><p>He had seen so much, experienced so much. But things had always ended in his death. This time it hadn’t. He had survived, and not because of his immortality. He didn’t know why, but somehow that made it worse. His mind filled in the blanks of that night. Sometimes he was tied up, other times he just lay there, unable to do anything but take it. Sometimes it was one, other times there were more. It always hurt though. He knew, because he felt the pain for a week after the assault.</p><p>That was five years ago. He was a lot better now. But nightmares still haunted him sometimes. He truly wished he had been killed that night. He would have come back to live still, but it might make him feel less helpless. Somehow, because he didn’t die, it felt like it was his fault. All the other traumas he had experienced, he had died trying and fighting. Now he had just woken up, sore but alive. He blamed himself. He did not return to work either.</p><p>In that same year, after the assault, Merlin tried to die again. He jumped off the highest building he could find. It was night and the streets were all empty and dark below him, so no one actually would see him fall. He felt himself freeze as the cold air blew around him. Rain fell down on him, mixing with his tears. He stood on the edge on the roof, as a proud figure taking over the world. But it felt as if the world had taken over him. He opened his mouth to scream at the sky, to curse the Tripple Goddess for torturing him with immortality, and wishing that for one night he would be mortal again. Then, he jumped. </p><p>She had not heeded his words. He had woken up on wet grass. It was relatively dark still, the sun only beginning to show himself. Merlin sighed. He lay still for a moment, not yet used to the vertigo that always followed a death. He hated everything. He hated destiny. He hated the Tripple Goddess. He hated that person for not killing him. He hated being forced to live again and again. He hated waiting for Arthur, because it didn’t seem he would ever return. He hated being alone. He hated his memories. His feelings. His thoughts. But mostly, he hated himself.</p><p>Merlin tried to stop feeling, but nothing helped. Merlin wouldn’t try and get himself in trouble with drugs, too afraid of what people might do with him, unable to discern between reality and hallucination. If he did magic…. He didn’t want to imagine what torture that would bring in a modern age. He knew he could handle his drink, even heavily inebriated he had enough sense not to do magic, but the effects were only for a few minutes, and the aftermath left him feeling more than before. Merlin figured it was his magic protecting him. He hated it. Instead, Merlin drowned himself in stories. Stories about other people who suffered but turned out fine. At least then he wouldn’t have to think for himself.</p><p>Now, book therapy actually helped. Merlin got a job at the university. He attended a book club every once in a while. They were doing Shakespeare, his sonnets. Merlin snickered silently as the discussion would come up if Shakespeare was actually in love with a young man. Some would get very defensive, something about forcing a sexuality upon him (even though they force heterosexuality upon him, but apparently that was no issue at all). William most definitely was no hetero, and some of those sonnets were even about Merlin himself. Before Merlin had made it clear that William should look elsewhere, he had written a good amount of poems about Merlin. They remained good friends though, Merlin even starred in some of his plays. The book club was a cosy and easy way of remembering some of his friends through the years. </p><p>He was actually picking up living again. Of course, he only did so because he had no other choice, but still. Progress is progress right? He had a routine. Mondays were lecture days. He would leave at eight and come home at five. Tuesdays were book-club days, from seven to nine in the evening they gathered in the bookstore with mugs of tea. Wednesdays were for grocery shopping and walking in the park. Thursday were lecture days again, eight to five at the university. Fridays were reading days. The weekend was mostly spent inside his house, but every once in a while he would go out into the world, like a little adventure.</p><p>A routine helped. He still had flashbacks and nightmares from his past, no matter how far away, but a routine gave him something to hold unto. When he woke up screaming after seeing Arthur die again, he could hold on to what he was used to. When he woke up thinking he was in a mass grave, he could hold to his routine. Even if all else fell apart around him, he could at least continue his life.</p><p>But his routine broke. </p><p>It was a sunny day. Merlin was sitting on a bench in the park, eyes closed, earbuds in, just enjoying the sun and wind against his skin. He felt his magic tickle his fingertips, eager to play with the elements as Merlin was enjoying them now. He felt content for once. The constant anxiety in his chest feeling as the dying embers of a fire, still there but hardly noticeable. He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to him. When he saw people were only busy with themselves, he let some of his magic out. Some flowers popped from the ground, butterflies began to flutter around him. Merlin smiled. </p><p>But then, his breath was knocked out of him. He gasped, and grabbed at his chest. A wave of powerful magic rippled through the earth. It overwhelmed him. The world was spinning. He tried to calm his breathing as he leaned forward with his eyes squeezed shut. In. out. In. out. He could do this. This is not his first time hyperventilating. In. he just needed to breathe. Out. He sat there for a few minutes before he took one final deep breath and slumped backwards, leaning heavily against the bench. He hated hyperventilating, it always left him tired. </p><p>What had caused that magic to overflow so suddenly though? Last time he had felt something that powerful was during his time with Anhorra, but that was centuries ago. Merlin opened his eyes and sat up straight. There were still druids alive, small communities now. Could they have done something? No, they were too small and their magic too diluted to cause anything like this. Merlin would have to look up his books. With a final sigh he stood up, and turned around. Only to be faced with the answer to his ponderings: Arthur had returned, and he was standing right in front of Merlin with a look of recognition in his eyes. Merlin turned tail and ran, unheeding of Arthur screaming his name throughout the park.</p><p>Oh god. Oh. God. Arthur was back. Oh God. Merlin locked the door to his apartment and closed the windows and curtains. Oh god, Arthur had returned. He was back. He knew Merlin. Oh god. What does this mean. Merlin couldn’t think properly. “Oh God,” he groaned. “Oh no, no, no, no no. What…. Why…. how…. Oh God.” He tried to form coherent thoughts, but all that came out was panicked words in between gasps for air. “Arthur... is.... back.... He’s back.” Merlin had slumped to the floor in his tiny bedroom. Too tired to move, focused only on his panic and breathing. After all these years Arthur had returned. And Merlin had run away. Oh god. How was he supposed to deal with this?<br/>
Did the knights return as well? What about Gwen? Gaius? Morgana? Would he be forced to relive everything, only in a modern context? Merlin gasped in pain. He couldn’t do that. But he had to. If that were the case he couldn’t not do it. He couldn’t die so he would have to deal with it some way or another. “No no no no…” Merlin curled in on himself. It was all too much. Where was the peace he felt in the park? Now he felt as if he was burning. His chest was trying to cramp in on itself and his limbs were all locked muscles, burning with tension. His head was pounding and his heart was beating painfully. Merlin desperately tried to gasp for air, but found he could not. </p><p>He woke up later in a fetal position in the exact same spot. Huh, he thought, must have passed out. He kept laying there for a while, too tired to move, only slightly shifting in a more comfortable position. Once he lay on his back, he let himself go limp. Merlin stared at the white ceiling. Arthur had returned. Tears fell silently from Merlin’s eyes, slowly trickling down his cheeks unto the floor. He would not relive Arthur’s death. He would not. He refused. Merlin decided he may not be able to die, but he is damn well able to not leave his flat for years. He had stayed inside for over a decade before, he sure could do it again. Let the world deal with it.</p><p>Still, part of him longed to go to Arthur. To find himself in the arms of his oldest and best friend. The one he had been forced to stay alive for all these centuries. To feel the warmth and happiness that used to be ever-present when he was with Arthur. Even during times of war or grave danger, Merlin had never lost hope or humour because Arthur had been there by his side. And if Arthur was there it would be alright. But it hadn’t been alright. Arthur had died. Merlin had been tortured with immortality. Arthur’s return could only be false hope. It had to be. One thing that Merlin had learnt throughout his immortal years was that nothing can be trusted. Not even the best things are good. So Arthur having returned cannot be good. Life wasn’t kind enough to Merlin to allow it to be.</p><p>Merlin called in sick at work and the book club. He would have forced himself to go, to continue living, if the threat of meeting Arthur outside the safety of his flat would not have been there. But he couldn’t risk it. He ordered his groceries and books. He looked online at houses away from the big city. He didn’t want to leave England again, but he would if he had too. Anything to spare himself the pain of losing his soulmate again.</p><p>Still, Merlin felt the pull to go outside. He was sure if he followed it he would meet Arthur. So he didn’t. But it may have been what prevented him from actually moving away. Sure, he looked at houses and residences far away from London, but he never jumped, even though there was nothing stopping him. </p><p>Merlin had grown a beard in the few weeks at home. His hair was longer too, falling in dark curls into his eyes if he didn’t do something about it. It hadn’t done him good, isolating himself. He wasn’t eating well, not that malnutrition could kill him, but still. He looked uncared for. He wore the same outfit for weeks, using magic to stay clean, rather than taking the time to shower and care for his body. He spent days on the couch or in bed, piles of books surrounding him, constantly reading, just to keep his mind off of things. He felt lonely, but he also felt nothing at all. He couldn’t afford to do anything about it. He couldn’t. It wouldn’t turn out well. It couldn’t turn out well. Nothing ever did.</p><p>Even things with well intentions, like that party, would ruin him for the rest of his life. How could the most powerful wizard be so easily reduced? One moment of weakness is all it takes. Merlin wouldn’t allow himself more moments of weakness. He closed himself off. He ignored the pull.  He regularly overdosed on sleeping pills, just so he wouldn’t be plagued by nightmares. Every morning he’d wake up anyway, and it was not the worst death to wake up from. </p><p>But the pull became stronger. As if Arthur was getting closer. But he couldn’t, he didn’t know where Merlin lived. Nevertheless, it became harder and harder to keep the door locked. Merlin should have known he couldn’t hide forever. </p><p>Merlin didn’t know how long ago he had felt the powerful magic and seen Arthur in the park, but his beard was becoming too long. It itched. Merlin shaved.</p><p>Merlin kept reading, and reading. Books were ordered everyday and he kept reading. He reread Shakespeare as many times as he could, bathing in the happy memories he and William had had. He tried to block out anything else. The world could fuck off. He had taken the rest of the year off University, saying something about personal circumstances that took a long time to attend to. He would figure out what to do with that job later. </p><p>Everyday was the same. Merlin woke up, ate an apple, read a book, ate instant noodles, read another book, overdosed, and woke up again.</p><p>But then, there was a knock on the door.</p>
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